


The Ring Finger

by Nikoshinigami



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:57:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a ring worn on his third finger, the metal band looking heavy and cold against the delicate digit which bore the adornment's moniker--the ring finger, a place reserved for this mark of fidelity long since standing in forgotten tradition.</p><p>And John Watson, for the life of him, could not remember when first his best friend wore it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 2013 has been the year of the angst fic according to my library so I offer now a mostly plotless Johnlock romance. Not sure how long it will be, not sure if there will be smut or not, but hopefully I won't make you cry this time.

Gunmetal grey was in stark contrast against ivory flesh, a band of metal now settled between the long, sinister digits of the detective's subordinate hand. It was a ring worn on his third finger, the metal knot looking heavy and cold against the delicate digit which bore the adornment's moniker--the ring finger, a place reserved for this mark of fidelity long since standing in forgotten tradition. There was no discernible reason to wear a ring there outside a promise and far less reason in keeping with the man's discriminating nature. Sherlock wore a watch because it was useful and gloves for much the same. He did not decorate his person in purposeless accessories but there it was all the same, glossy and perfectly sized to his large but fine-boned finger. And John Watson, for the life of him, could not remember when first his best friend wore it.

Molly had been the first to point it out, issuing her query with the admission she'd noticed it before but considered it might be a one-off sort of thing. Sherlock didn't wear jewelery. He didn't even wear ties or the occasional cufflinks. For three weeks she said she'd seen him gloveless with the ring settled in the same place each time. What was the ring for? It was a perfectly reasonable question--especially for one rather obviously smitten with the abrasive man. Sherlock's simple and dismissive shrug left much to desired in way of explanation but cases were on, more important things requiring his attention than a comment about the sudden appearance of a ring on his left hand. It didn't stop being curious just because it apparently didn't matter to Sherlock. If anything it made it more suspect. Now where John couldn't recall having seen it before, the dark ring had become a beacon for his attention every time he saw the naked hand with its simple, polished burden.

+-+

Sitting on the sofa, paper held firmly in his tired hands, John read the day's news with a thoughtful frown amidst the tireless tuning of Sherlock's violin. G, D, A & E all rose and fell from their sharps and flats to hum with great assurance in their proper tune. John had spent enough time on clarinet to wince while a string sang sour, chin tilting in the direction of the pull till Sherlock eased it into proper accord. The E string always made his teeth set on edge, just waiting for the snap as the thin wire sang higher and higher, the string pulling tighter and tighter. Sherlock was adept but strings were fickle. Today's strings were perfect, however, and soon the taut horse hairs of the bow were scratching out a pleasant sound far from the repetition of tuning and instead following scales and melodic forms under the press and slide of Sherlock's left-hand fingers. Bare fingers--John had checked. Other than the preoccupation with the ambient sound quality and placement of Sherlock's ring, however, he really and truly was reading the paper. Mostly.

Sort of.

Either way, it made for good cover.

The ring was something of a fascination for John despite attempts to follow Sherlock's example and ignore its presence altogether. Sally Donovan had once said he needed a hobby but somehow 'ring spotting' didn't seem like the traditional sort of time-sink anyone would have recommended. It was just too _odd_ not to focus on, though--rather like the moans that had once ushered up from Sherlock's mobile every time he received a text from a certain femme fatale. Sherlock's nature was singular and easily accounted for though sometimes difficult to accept or to forgive. Anything that deviated, anything that seemed too normal or too sentimental instantly ran red flags through John's mind like a warning relay just to be sure he was still paying attention. _That_ was Sherlock's ring. And in the same breath as John might be able to describe the paragraph he'd read on foreign affairs and current military action, he could, without checking, be reminded of where the ring was now just by the sound of Sherlock playing.

There were very few times when Sherlock removed his ring and playing his violin happened to be one of them. He kept it on the music stand while he fiddled and always replaced it once the instrument was put away. Part of his nature was to be regimented in his own funny ways and in that much his actions remained in keeping with what John knew of his friend. He also knew he slept with it on just from simple observations of it already being there at hours when otherwise Sherlock would have had to have remembered to put it on despite his usual, single-minded haste. It was there after showers but on the table if the science equipment was brought out. It was there when he texted and typed.

If it had been a gold ring that at least might have been _something_ to go off of. Maybe someone had died, some important male figure of whose property Sherlock came to inherit and found sentimental value in the small trinket. It was out of character, certainly, but then so was the very idea of Sherlock walking into a jeweler and buying a brand new ring for himself. There was nothing at all traditional about the dark metal band and just from the sheen of the it John could see very few nicks which might profess to some amount of wear and tear from a previous owner. By all accounts it was as new to the world as it was to Sherlock's hand, the one made for the other and simply put to rest. 

It was very difficult to concentrate on Syria with his mind stuck on the most mundane, noncritical detail one could ever possibly fixate on. John flipped the pages of his paper just to seem as though he was making progress. Better to pretend than be called out on hiding behind the paper folds of newsworthy trivia. He couldn't even say he was all that busy listening to Sherlock instead. It was a nice tune but not one he hadn't heard before. His daylight serenades were more a moment of practice--as were their echos past the midnight hour. It wasn't till the fire was lit and the lights dimmed that it could be called a true performance and with the autumn sun still hanging above the rooftops, this was, at best, a warm up. 

Chinese take-away for dinner, then. Chopsticks and single-serving cartons were a favorite on nights when the strings were tuned and the bow dusted in dark amber. John would make the call in a bit, see about that bottle of wine they'd purchased the last time they'd stopped in the shops together, see that the logs were stacked and chairs arranged so that it didn't seem like a purposeful performance though they both catered to the expectation. It was them at their most civilized and John quite enjoyed it as a deviation from telly or nights out on the town. It was just Sherlock showing off, same as he always did, but not as he always allowed to be seen. John was special in that respect and there was something of an honor in each and every twilight concert over peking duck and pinot noir.

"Get that, would you?" 

John tilted his paper down, face scrunching as he imagined how he might have not heard the doorbell. It didn't repeat. "Sorry, what?"

"My phone," Sherlock explained, giving the A string a pluck. "On the music stand. Check the messages and let Lestrade know how much I appreciate his silence if there's still nothing there."

John sighed but folded his paper, not exactly in the middle of anything. "Alright. What threat level are we talking about, here? Get you a case 'cause you're bored or get you a case before you set about to deduce London's citizens to tears and rage?"

Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, contemplating the choice seriously. It generally wasn't an exaggeration. "Tell him to find me a case or prepare me a cell. I think his imagination should provide the rest adequately."

John scoffed slightly with a chuckle, shaking his head as he crossed the short distance to the black stand set behind the green chair Sherlock was currently sunk into, chin caught in the violin's embrace under the bend of his own neck. They'd only been without a case for two days, hardly enough time to be quite _that_ restless, but it was fair to try all the same. Lestrade was a far more reliable source of entertainment than their own income-providing service. Clients came and went but crimes were almost assured. Surely something interesting would reveal itself. 

John picked up the phone and did as he was asked, going ahead and recalling the local Chinese from the phone's memory as he raised a quick brow to Sherlock, no question asked but acknowledgement given. "Beef with black pepper sauce," the detective said and John nodded, lips pursed with pleasant assessment. Two of them, probably, or he'd be sorry once he smelled Sherlock's. Some scallops for a shared appetizer as well, and something with greens to prove they weren't solely carnivorous and promote some sort of 'healthy' eating. He loitered at the window and its musical accompaniments as he got them squared away, looking out at the street as he spoke until the glimmer of something smooth and polished caught his eye below the pages of sheet music beside him.

John wasn't immediately sure why he did it. Quick slip, no hesitation in his voice as he confirmed their order, his fingers closed around dark ring and then eased it in against the palm and out of sight. It was cool against his skin. Somehow he'd always imagined it to be hot. He finished his call and replaced and phone on the stand where Sherlock had left it reclining then simply walked back to his spot on the couch to continue reading his paper--all the while he secreted the dark band away from its habitual spot. It was stupid, really. Childish even. But perhaps a bit of genius too. 

Sherlock all but ignored questions about the ring, _but_ if the ring really meant nothing to Sherlock, then he would probably search for it for a bit, get annoyed, and eventually forget about it. If instead he tore the place apart, he couldn't exactly pretend to John's face that the ring was still just some pointless adornment. It was Sherlock Holmes levels of sneaky bastard and John almost felt pleased with himself for reacting so coolly in the midst of the sudden opportunity. He'd give it back once he had Sherlock's true concerns on the matter outed and then Chinese and a private concert until wine made it all a bit funny anyway.

Sadly, it was Sherlock Holmes he was trying to fool. With one look towards his resting music, the man paused with a furrow of his brow, looked briefly at the floor, then stared curiously across the room at John. "Why did you take it?" he asked, genuinely confused and a little bit hurt if the shape of his argent eyes was any indication. 

By all accounts, John had just walked over and stolen something from his best friend. Somehow he hadn't taken into consideration the fact that it looked very bad when caught. There was a reason Sherlock always looked like an asshole when he did these sorts of things. John's face felt warm with shame. "There really is no way to say this that doesn't make me sound like the villain from a children's story. I just, uh... I wanted to see how long you'd look for it."

"You wanted to gauge its importance."

John nodded, folding his newspaper away with the crackle of pleated pages. "Pretty much." He stacked the paper on top of the others, averting his eyes appropriately though Sherlock remained seated rather than stalking over to reclaim his property.

"You could just ask," he said, fingers unfolding in the air as his hand waited, palm up with his violin perched against his thigh in temporary repose.

Well, that had been an abysmal failure. John's face gave further evidence to the _worth-a-try_ sentiment rather than remorse as he stood up once more, rolling the ring in his hand with his thumb as he gave a quick, tactile search for engravings least the whole thing be a complete waste of effort. The ring was smooth inside and out. "You know what it means to wear a ring on your left hand?" he asked as he deposited it like a hole in the other man's palm.

"That I'm right-handed?" Sherlock closed his fingers around it and shifted as he dropped it in his trouser pocket, giving John a somewhat amused scowl though he still seemed somewhat disappointed in him. "John, details concerning marriage are important to my work and as such you can be assured I am in fact better versed in the tells of matrimony than you could ever hope to instruct me in."

John held up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Okay. Just.. you know. People talk."

"And I continue to be unconcerned."

"Not a wedding ring, then," John asked as they were finally on the topic anyway.

Sherlock hummed over the hairs of his bow under his usual appraisal, his previous task returning with no further reason to cause pause. "Wedding ring? No. Just something I slipped on and as of yet have had no real reason to part with."

John sighed, at least that bit of nagging curiosity quelled after a rather botched attempt at more. He backed up into his floral chair, moving the union jack pillow as he sat in close rapport. "Okay. Just, you know, I guess I just wouldn't be that surprised if somehow you up and eloped and never spoke a word of it to me so just... just asking."

"You're asking the wrong question then," Sherlock said, his attention still invested in the intricacies of his instrument.

John frowned. "Hm?"

Sherlock set his violin to his shoulder once more, his chin delicately cradled in its rest. "You asked if that was a wedding ring. It's not," he said, fingers poised over the neck as the bow hung above the bridge to start. "But I am married."


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade couldn't have called at a less opportune time. There was a murder and a foot-chase and a stop off for chips knowing the Chinese would be cold. Then Sherlock went to bed. John almost managed it himself, _almost_ , save for that voice that waited until the lights were out and the sounds of the flat completely silenced before pushing aside the fantastic deductions and breathless pursuits to whisper one last thing to his tired mind: _he's married_.

It would have been a hilarious joke. Should have been. Sherlock didn't jest in that fashion, though, and wouldn't really find much humor in pretending to be married despite rebuking the idea of a wedding ring. So it was true; Sherlock Holmes was married. John kicked his blankets off with a groan as that singular thought stole every inkling towards sleep from him and replaced it with spinning concerns that simply did not have any answers.

Married. Since when? Surely not since John had moved in and yet even saying as such was a fallacy when considering the subject was Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock wouldn't think anything of popping out, signing a few documents, and returning home with nothing but grief on the route of the cabby. It was all too likely, honestly. The man was a callous arse who didn't think important personal things like getting married mattered.

John rolled over in bed, punching his pillow into softness as he scowled into the night. He supposed he never did ask much about the circumstances that lead to Sherlock needing a new place to live which had cummulated in their shared residence on Baker Street. John had been invalided home from the army but Sherlock, as far as John knew, hadn't had any dire circumstances behind his needing a new home and flatmate. Living with Mycroft? Some halfway house? Had he hated a flatmate more than he liked his home? It would make all too much sense to place him in a disastrous marriage in which his wife kept the property and most of his funds tied up, allowing Sherlock to retreat to a free lifestyle of crimes and clues. It would explain why he needed a roommate even though he was quite affluent and knowing Sherlock he probably simply couldn't be arsed to follow through with paperwork. That was the easy explanation--one possible solution based on only _some_ of the evidence. He'd been spending too much time with Sherlock if even half-past four in the morning wasn't a good enough excuse for sloppy detective work.

Greg had known him for years and never mentioned a wife. Donovan had been surprised that Sherlock had a _colleague_ so at the very least he'd have had to have hidden it from NSY. Mycroft made comments on Sherlock's virginity in squabbles rather than teasing him on a failed marriage and they had both professed to a mystery in understanding Sherlock's heart. Being married _before_ meeting John fit with the circumstances but was ill-fashioned to explain anything of substance relating to the man and those who knew him. 

So it seemed he'd married in the years since John'd met him. And didn't say anything. To anyone. Not even to John. 

To be honest, that hurt. It hurt a lot. Even if it wasn't anything more than speculation, it was a very real possibility which painted their friendship as less meaningful than John had always felt it was. It was sleep-depriving in its echos, little stabs in his gut and chest that were cold and left him numb. Sherlock knew better. Surely he did. So why on earth did he hide this part of himself from John? Was he embarrassed? Was he ashamed? Was there some kind of secret to be kept in his wife's identity that forced him to suppression? He simply could not know without asking and sadly Sherlock was a terribly unreliable narrator of even his own life's story.

Giving up on sleep, John threw his legs over the side of the bed and set his sights on the kitchen to get a glass of water. His throat was dry and stomach sour from all the unwanted thoughts. He'd call it heartburn if it bothered to feel like fire but instead it was cold, a belly full of ice and overflowing up his throat with a taste like boiled eggs' smelled. He wrapped himself in his dressing gown and slowly took the stairs down to the first floor of the flat, careful of the one floorboard that creaked on the third step up. He went through the den rather than straight through to the kitchen on tired feet that followed the path on instinct. The violin was still on its stand rather than the case from their hurried departure, white pages of music still splayed over the black frame by the darkened window. John's chair was sitting back, waiting for the performance that never came while Sherlock's was pulled aside to set the empty stage. He could smell the spices of the Chinese left on the counter. His bare feet were cold against the floor. In the fridge there would be containers of body parts and the microwave was only permissible for human use so many days out of the month.

John could lose all this. He'd never really thought of it before, never considered it a possibility. But if Sherlock was married it stood to reason that at any time the man might decide he didn't want to live with John anymore and leave him for his marriage bed. The idea of it just felt... _wrong_ on a level both conscious and subconscious. It wasn't as though John didn't have alternatives if something like that should happen but somehow the thought had never occurred to him that he might one day wake up and all the thrill and excitement of their life together be stolen away on the pretense of love. Sherlock was John's constant, something reliable and always there. Something, apparently, to be taken for granted. The thought didn't settle any of the cold bile stirring in his gut.

Never once did it occur to John that Sherlock might be the first of them to move on. Not once. Even the times he teased about Ms. Adler stopped short of what Sherlock finding love might actually mean for them. No more unscheduled performances at home, no more arguments over the kitchen, no more simple understanding that when Lestrade called it was meant as an invitation for both of them. They'd have to coordinate if they were apart. Sherlock didn't think about things like that when on the run. He'd forget about John. That's just the way he was--obsessive and single-minded and neglectful when busy. If this was all some joke about being married to his work, John was going to strangle him. He felt positively ill just thinking about all the things a marriage could mean which could disrupt the life they loved.

Sherlock was supposed to be the selfish one. Gripping the glass in his hand, tap turned till only a trickle of cold water spilled out, John was having a hard time reconciling that with the flowing thoughts pouring out of his head.

+-+

"Rough night?"

John sputtered awake, dreams forgotten as his mind shifted from fantasy to reality as if by a flipped switch. He was on the couch, face down in a cushion with half his body hanging off the side and onto the floor. He didn't remember laying down let alone sleeping and yet the sun was falling in through the windows with day having followed the night somewhere between headache and heartache. He groaned, turning his face into the squeaky leather. He hadn't slept near enough to escape the stupid worries that had made the initial sleep so difficult to find.

Taking his primitive sounds as an affirmative, Sherlock left John to his couch repose, tapping his heels with the day's paper before dropping it on the table in an arching trajectory towards the kitchen doors. John could hear him fill the kettle and set it to boil. "The mirtazapine is in the bathroom," he called back to the tinkle of glassware.

John knew exactly where his antidepressants where, thank you. It was more than a little insulting to be reminded. "You'd know," he shot back, knowingly childish but far from caring. He could see Sherlock arching his brow in his mind's eye as he let his face rub against the cool upholstery.

"Testy this morning, aren't we?" the detective said in jest. There was more rummaging in the kitchen, maybe toast, maybe leftovers. The crinkle and thwaps of breakfast were a menagerie of possibilities. "You don't normally have trouble sleeping after a case."

"Yeah, well, I did this time. Just not feeling so great. 

Sherlock was quiet, the sounds from the kitchen muting slightly as well. John sighed into the rumble of traffic outside, the permeation of the city sounds within the silence that were no different from the sounds of his own breathing. The toast popped up--toast it was then. He hadn't been hungry but he felt he could be persuaded. "Couple slices for me too, yeah?"

"Will you take the mirtazapine and get some sleep if I do? As a sleep aid," he followed up quickly, as though heading off the argument he could feel himself instigating. "I'm not insinuating anything. Though you _were_ a bit off your game last night."

John rolled over, pulling a pillow over his eyes as he sank more comfortably into the couch on his back with all four limbs safely contained by it. "Just couldn't shut my brain off is all," he explained.

Sherlock scoffed in the other room. "If even I can manage that feat now and then, there's no reason why you shouldn't be able to."

"You talk to your wife like that?" John asked, chuckling despite himself. "Gatta tell ya, it gets on most people's tits when you go the whole better-than-you route in a conversation."

There was silence in the kitchen, the popping of more toast almost too loud in the absence of other movement and speech. John peeked out under the pillow but could see nothing but shadows in the other room through the painted glass walls. He heard as much as saw Sherlock pace around in the kitchen getting the tea service set and plates added to a tray. He closed his eyes and pretended not to have been watching while Sherlock placed the tray on the coffee table and set a heavy mug and plate on top of the piles of papers and magazines. There was the rattle of a pill case and then Sherlock was standing again, over to the table in the den to sit before his laptop per usual with his own light meal. John peeked once more and glared slightly at the precisely jam-brushed toast, the perfect milky tea and, grudgingly, the aged prescription bottle with his name on it which was more often shared between them.

"Get some sleep," Sherlock said around his first crumbly bite, eyes locking on the screen before him and back-lit by the sunlight streaming in through the windows. "You're annoying."

"You're married."

Sherlock shrugged. "It hadn't made a difference before you knew, I don't see why it should make a difference now."

With a long sigh and no strength to fuel a go at it, John sat up and unscrewed the cap to the medication to swallow with a hearty swig of tea. There was no arguing with Sherlock and no guarantee of a peaceful sleep to be had even if he did. It seemed to please Sherlock either way as he watched and made sure the pill was swallowed before his gaze fell back to his laptop.

John frowned at the pill case, a rouge thought running through his mind as he set it down next to the Times and the Telegraph. "You didn't swap out the pills and just get me to take something else did you?"

Sherlock shrugged, hiding a smirk behind his mug. "I guess we'll know in about fifteen minutes."

John threw his pillow at him. They both grumbled and laughed. Fifteen minutes later John was out cold on the couch, drooling against the leather in a dreamless sleep that felt like a black hole had opened up inside him and engulfed everything he'd ever kept within his mind. 

At three he woke up in his own bed, tucked under covers with a glass of water at his bedside and not a memory in recognition for how he'd ended up there.


	3. Chapter 3

John wasn't going to allow for another sleepless night. He came down for tea with purpose in his steps to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table with a few petri dishes and assorted scientific utensils out before him. It was going to be one of _those_ evenings, then. John much preferred the days when boredom was dealt with in the accompaniment of song rather than a variety of fungi and other cultures. He supposed he couldn't expect Sherlock to pick up from where they'd left off the night before. John certainly intended to, though.

Dressed in a white button-down rather than his customary lounge wear, Sherlock seemed to have made the most of the day despite all plans to stay indoors. Residual high, his mood still elevated on the pleasure of a well-solved case and a hobby to occupy the problem solving side of his mind. He more or less ignored John as he came into the kitchen no better dressed than having rolled out of bed, the scientist's steady hands requiring his attention more so than his flatmate entering a room. Making the most of the day obviously hadn't included washing the dishes from breakfast or emptying out the kettle. John frowned at them, knowing full well who was expected to deal with the small stack of plates and mugs. He rinsed them with the stagnant water from the kettle before setting it under the tap to refill and set once more to boil. It gave him a task in the interim which kept his back turned from Sherlock's seated figure. It was much easier to talk about some things when only the sound of his voice mattered.

John rolled up his sleeves before grabbing a small rag. The stuck-on jam was already annoying him and he hadn't even tried scrubbing it off yet. "So, when do I meet her?" he asked, speaking over the rush of the tap as hot water splashed against the plates.

Sherlock's response was unsurprising. "Meet whom?"

"Your wife." 

"Still on that, are you?" John heard the squeak of Sherlock's chair as he leaned back, catching the change in weight distribution in the way the chair legs drummed on the tile. Sherlock would perhaps be impressed if their conversation had anything to do with aural clues and body placement. "Why does it matter so much?" Sherlock asked, sounding tired and bored and not in the least bit guilty.

It was annoying. "Why does it matter that you got married and didn't tell me? Do I really need to explain it to you?"

"What is it you want, John?"

John shrugged, finally getting the jam off with the strength of his thumbnail while the rag washed away the film of butter. "I don't know. A name. A picture. A story about how the two of you met, maybe?" He turned the tap on to rinse the dishes, his frustration very unlike the streams of water that rolled down and dissipated through the drain. "I have introduced you to every girl I've dated and yet I haven't a clue who you married. Can you see how maybe that's a little unfair?"

"I never asked to meet the girls you were dating," Sherlock said in weak defense.

"Sherlock, you invited yourself on my dates!"

"Well, it was important."

"And you falling in love and getting married isn't?" John turned around, scowling with impunity to find Sherlock sitting sideways in his chair, facing John with his arm casually bent across the top. The dark ring was gleaming in the overhead light from its customary placement on his hand but still not brighter than the intensity in Sherlock's pale eyes.

John had been wrong; there _was_ a bit of guilt there though it was masked with an overall expression of disappointment. Disappointed in him? John could not fathom the line of thought the genius detective would have to follow for him to feel anything but indebted to John with information. 

Sherlock worried his bottom lip, the plump line of pink pulling thin under his teeth. "Look, I did consider discussing it with you but I didn't think it was... appropriate," he settled for, looking displeased with the choice of words all the same. "You would have had reservations and I preferred the idea of secrecy over disregard."

John's hairline raised in surprise. "I would have had reservations? Me? So I know her, then." or at least that was one possibility. Still, who did John know who liked Sherlock? Only Molly really came to mind of the living and if she had somehow managed to keep it a secret then she really was deserving of merit there. But no, no, Molly wore her heart on her sleeve and would have been more than obvious about such ceremonious tidings. If not for love, then, who did John know who would best benefit from a marriage to Sherlock? "... _Mrs. Hudson_?"

It was a shot in the dark and rather worth it for the way Sherlock's face pinched in utter dismay, forehead wrinkled and nostrils flared. "John, this is not a guessing game and no, I have not married a geriatric."

"You can't tell me I probably wouldn't like your wife and then not tell me who she is. You do realize that is going to drive me insane, yes?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing up from his chair to walk away, raking his fingers through the fluff of curls on his head till they danced like weeds and fluttered still with the reverberations even after his fingers fled. "Oh for god's sake, it's not important!"

"Fantastic, then," John said as he followed, the red light on the kettle announcing the water's boil though they were both making steps towards the den. "If it's not important, there's no reason not to tell me."

Sherlock let his arms flop to his sides like a frustrated penguin, his fingers curling in on his palms in irritation and annoyance as he turned to John, his sudden lack of forward progress causing them to almost collide head-on as John continued to follow. "You," he said, his nose inches from John's and far inside any semblance of a personal bubble.

John stalled, pulling his face back towards his neck in a turtle-like recoil as he waited for the rest of the sentence. There wasn't one and Sherlock did not move. "What?"

"You. I am married to _you_."

"... _What_?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stepping back as he spun and walked towards the window nearest his chair, arms up beside his head. "I told you you'd have reservations."

"Hold on. What?" John's mind was like a dead car battery leaving the engine to sputter and fail. "No, Sherlock, we're not--you and I are not married."

Sherlock shrugged his facial features in an all too familiar and not at all inspiring expression of well-informed discord. He rocked back on his heels, no longer a vision of stoicism in his avoidance but childlike in his reveal.

John stood still on the rug beside his own chair, his jaw heavy and hanging low, accompanied by his shoulders and neck. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

The detective shrugged. "Breaking and entering, hacking and a bit of forgery. Otherwise, it's all perfectly legal."

Oh, dear god. "You can't be serious." Yes, he could. "This has got to a joke." Possible but not likely. "You're not funny, you know that, yeah?"

"It's not exactly intended to be funny. Honestly, I knew you'd react like this," Sherlock said in his defense, not at all helping his case as he disproved any grounds for ignorance.

John put a hand out to steady himself on his chair, fingers white against the plaid throw. "And yet you still did it," he pointed out, quite sure he was technically yelling. "That is a fantastic display of your complete disregard for anyone but yourself."

Sherlock all but growled in exasperation. "You're not looking at it properly," he cried, his lithe body contorting in gestures of vexation. "This way, regardless of circumstances, you are permitted to make medical decisions on my behalf which, given our choice in profession, should come in handy. My fortune defaults to you rather than Mycroft should anything happen to me which is honestly in everyone's best interest as Mycroft certainly doesn't need it. There are plenty of ways in which our lifestyle is affected positively by our being married and literally no fallout. Well, excepting your disapproval and obvious annoyance with me."

"It's _marriage_ , Sherlock."

"And it is the most effective way to mutually share personal, legally protected privileges and responsibilities without either of us coming under the thumb of the other."

John pursed his lips together, trying to remember to breathe as he glared across the room, not really trusting himself to move closer. "And when exactly were you going to tell me?" he asked, almost certain he knew the answer before ever expending the energy to speak it.

Sherlock shrugged. "Honestly, I hadn't planned on telling you at all. If anything happened you'd obviously find out about it but circumstances would probably make you look upon the surprise as a pleasant bit of foresight on my part."

Yes, that was very much what he'd thought. John smirked, shaking his head in the lack of disbelief he was experiencing in the whole of their conversation. "And what if I wanted to get married to someone else?"

"Then I'd break in, do a bit of hacking, and delete my forgery. Really, John, there's nothing to be upset about."

John had a short laugh at that. "You are amazing, Sherlock," he said, shaking his head as he looked to the ceiling. "Really and truly, you are. How long have we been married?"

Sherlock's lips twisted curiously. "Legally or technically?"

"Why is there a difference?"

"I didn't want to have to remember another date so I put us as having been married on January the 6th. Much easier than... well, whenever it was I broke in. Eight months ago or so. February, I think." Sherlock plopped himself in his chair, legs hanging over the arm in a concentrated effort to show how not a big deal it all was.

"February?" John cocked his head, hand gesturing out towards Sherlock's left hand. "You only just started wearing that stupid ring, though," he said, gaining half a step in his direction as he looked down at his impossible companion. _Husband!_

"I did say it wasn't a wedding ring," Sherlock reminded him, his thumb turning the gunmetal grey band like a dial.

John laughed, perhaps the slightest bit of hysteria sneaking in, as he walked back to the kitchen for a beer.


	4. Chapter 4

John still needed a beer, and several of them, when he met with Greg Lestrade for drinks the following evening as they did on occasion. It never really heralded good news. Problems with involvement from higher up, some questionable morality and issues of good conscious--there was quite an assortment of reasons really why they might need to talk over a pint as Sherlock's PA and Detective Inspector. Still, John liked him. He respected him. It was difficult to preface any meeting as simply one between two men of a mutual acquaintance without bringing in their respective titles but John still considered him a friend and valued his input on most things dealing with Sherlock. Greg had heard and seen just about everything the strange man could put out there. John was rather sure he might still surprise him yet with this one, though.

"I'm going to tell you something and you are going to keep it a secret."

Lestrade nodded as he pulled up closer to the table, elbows up and glass in hand with his shirt collar crooked under the neck of his jacket. He looked tired but intrigued, neither of which were a surprise on a Thursday. "Alright. Fair enough," he said. He took a sip in preparation, cool foam settling on his evening stubble.

John let out a shallow breath, lips licked and jaw set in expectation for either laughter or general jest. He was well aware it sounded ridiculous but still held hope that Lestrade's profession would earn him empathy over ridicule. "Sherlock and I are married," he said.

What he got was indeed understanding but far from the response he wanted and much closer to the one he was worried about. "Congratulations," Lestrade stated with a tip of his pint. "Rather thought I'd be invited to the wedding, though."

"What?" John scowled, his eyes squinting into puffy slits as he shook his head in dismay. "No, I mean Sherlock went and committed several felonies and has in doing so made us legally married without my having known about it."

Lestrade's frown pinched only slightly with concern. "You sure about that?"

"He confessed to the crime and spent the following half hour trying to convince me of why I should be happy he took matters into his own hands."

"If he's looking for your approval then yeah, he's done it." Lestrade took another deep drink, his silver hair testament to many years of both being surprised and in fact not being surprised at all at the kinds of things Sherlock could be held responsible for. 

There was laughter from the corner, the bubbly sound of a woman's giggle with the underlying base of a man's. Most of the other men and women around them showed signs of a hard day's work in their somber, almost mournful behavior but on occasion a bit of mirth pulled up through the monotony. The Pig and Whistle was probably John's favorite evening haunt when meeting old friends or sitting down with new ones. Quiet, working class, great chips, and they favored the rugby. He couldn't ask for much more and being close to walking distance if the night was nice enough made for an extended reprieve if he needed to get some air. Their stout on tap was rather good as well.

"Wouldn't take much to pull up public records and get a look at the certificate yourself. What do you need me for?" Lestrade asked, his bitter more than half gone already.

John sighed, fingers tapping in irritation on his glass. "I need a second opinion," he all but whispered, embarrassed by his own admission.

"On what? You being married to Sherlock?"

"He makes a good case," he admitted with no pride lost. "I am pissed as hell about it but it's... Obviously he's biased but he's also a genius and all this is based on very logical conclusions whereas all I can think of is Jesus Christ, I'm married to a bloke."

Lestrade nodded sagely, lips thin in thought. "You two have a lot of issues getting by without a marriage?"

"Honestly?" John shrugged, eyes downcast on the nicked surface of the table. "Maybe a bit. Mycroft pulls a string here and there but Sherlock's main concern seems to be having to rely on Mycroft at all. If Mycroft's indisposed, I'm stuck in a waiting room or denied access to his bank accounts where all our business checks are deposited. I mean, Sherlock's livelihood is my livelihood and something happening to him would be... I'd be stuck. And completely reliant on Mycroft to get my share of our shared assets. Our business isn't exactly normal and a lot of the business agreements between Sherlock and myself never make it to paper. Being married is one document that takes the place of a stack of other forms and is the only way we retain legal equality rather than having one of us recognized as dependent on the other."

"But it also means you're married."

"See, that's exactly what I keep coming back to!" John pressed his finger into the table as he jabbed at it in punctuation. It was very nice to have another voice of reason to be added to the dialogue that had passed before it. "He doesn't think it's that big a deal. It's just paperwork," he said, stronger with Greg's validation in the knowledge that it wasn't just him being stubborn on semantics.

Lestrade sat back, nodding still with a rosiness to his cheeks. "Is that the sort of thing you have to disclose when you're chatting a girl up? ' _Hello, Miss. Want to come back to my place? Don't worry, my husband doesn't mind_ '?"

"Jesus, I don't know." John pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed as he all too easily imagined exactly what that would be like. Sherlock was a third wheel even limited to being his friend. As his _husband_? John foresaw a lengthy dry-spell indeed. 

Greg took pity and bought the next round, setting two heady pints on the table while John did his best not to imagine the near fatal blow this was going to deal to his love life.

"Would you get a ring for yourself like Sherlock's?" the detective inspector asked, far from ready to leave the uncertain topic.

John shook his head, his glass cool against his lip as he knocked back another drink. "It's not a wedding ring," he corrected.

"No? What's it, then?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea. I kind of got distracted by the whole marriage thing. He swears its not a wedding ring, though."

"Yeah, pull the other one." Lestrade rolled his eyes as he leaned his elbow against the table, eyes scanning the tellies hung in the corner. "Happens to be married and just happens to wear a ring on his left hand? He's insulting both our intelligence with that one. Wonder what he'd think if _you_ started wearing a ring."

John chuckled lightly, always fond of Lestrade's snarky tone when things concerned Sherlock's ignorance or oversight. He'd more than earned the right to call Sherlock out on his behavior considering how often he took the other man's abuse.

Lestrade put his glass back on the table with a heavy _thunk_. "Well, what's done is done. You can get yourself an annulment whenever you like but it's not going to change what Sherlock did. May as well leave it and deal with it when it becomes a problem. Honestly, it's kinda sweet. For the first time since ever, Sherlock's actually given some thought into why it matters what happens to him. Cause it affects you. Sort of... misguided but romantic when you think about it."

"Just to be clear, you just put Sherlock and romance in the same context as _forced marriage_ ," John clarified, not nearly enough alcohol in his system to not still find most of the facts more than a little unnerving. 

Lestrade seemed to sober a bit himself with that, his face growing stoic as he nodded slowly and pulled up closer to the table. "Alright. Yeah, okay. Do you need me to do something about this? It's Sherlock so I guess we all get used to these sorts of things but you're right, it's not on. He shouldn't have done it. So if there's a problem... I don't know how far you'd get him on felony charges with Big Brother hanging around but you're in your right."

John shook his head, hands out and fingers splayed in defense. "No, _no_ , no, I didn't mean--No. It's fine. I mean, it's _not fine_ , but it's--It's nothing I need other people involved in other than maybe for a bit of moral support. Just.. keeping it in perspective is all."

"Alright, got ya. Creepy and intrusive; not romantic."

John nodded. "Thank you," he said, as he tipped his glass back and downed it all in one last, giant gulp.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a stupid idea, a thrown away comment over liquid indulgence, and yet despite all reason not to play to childish levels of retribution, John still found himself at the the jewelry counter at Argos buying a gold ring for forty pounds. Authenticity was key. It was nickel, surely, and plated thinly but it was shiny and simple and unremarkably obvious when worn on the ring finger of his own left hand. John quite liked the way it almost blended in against the fading tan of his skin so as to be more of an afterthought than the stark contrast of Sherlock's own paired flesh and metal. Subtly hadn't been part of the plan but so pleased was he with it he almost wished to take credit. All he really cared about was that it be traditional and fit perfectly bellow the bulge of his second knuckle.

Two could play at this game.

He walked out of the store wearing his not-a-wedding-ring wedding ring trying not to look too smug as he set off for home with the entirety of his plan already fulfilled in the one purchase. Despite the sales woman's assurance and his own tactile affirmation, he walked with his left hand fisted, fingers curled in to be doubly sure the ring would not find itself lost somewhere between the curb and the taxi. It was a strange accompaniment to his hand. Heavier than it looked. Awkward in the gaps between his fingers. Still, it was important to get this right if he was going to make a point. It certainly made for an interesting response to the belated question of marriage.

They hadn't spoken on it much since that night. A few angry words a week was really all John had in him if he planned to coexist in relative peace with the irritating man. They'd both defended their positions, apparently left it as a matter of simply agreeing to disagree, and the marriage itself remained uncompromised without John's direct dissension and demand for divorce. John didn't mind so much outside the principle of things the longer he had time to digest the idea. He was married to Sherlock Holmes. All the worries that had kept him up before, the concerns of being left behind due to a sudden instigation of romance, all of those were very much made void by the political institution that now resided in 221B. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere and to much the same degree neither was John. It was... comforting. John didn't delight often in security but his night of worry had made certain things which had never come to mind suddenly spring forward with alarm and a need to be addressed. If he didn't think of it as marriage, if he let himself just call it a ' _partnership_ ' and leave semantics to the courts, it really wasn't such a bad idea. It was just a word. It was just an institution. Sherlock's blatant disrespect had really been the only objection that did not fade to grudging acceptance with time. Telling Sherlock off was rarely an effective means to proving a point. However, if there was one thing one could always rely on Sherlock for, it was to _observe_.

Which was precisely why John's largest concern was hiding his smile when it took less than three minutes for Sherlock to notice the gold band, stand scowling with confusion, and finally give up on his own methods to get straight to the obvious point. "You're wearing a ring."

John looked up at his hand as he finished hanging up his coat, shrugging nonchalant as he brought it back down without pause. "So I am," he said, walking towards his chair to pick up the laptop seated on the tea table. 

Sherlock followed him physically, shadowing him from his haunt in the kitchen doorway to stand in front of him in the den. "On your dominant hand," he continued, nose wrinkled. "Why wear it on your dominant hand?"

"I don't know. Fit better there?"

The detective rolled his eyes, not so bewildered as to let flippancy slide. "The circumference of your ring fingers is of negligible difference. Why are you even wearing a ring at all?"

"I don't know. Fancied it and bought it. No real reason." John sat back, opening his computer on his lap as it hummed back to life with beeps and rolling screens. It was damn hard not to smirk as he threw the words right back at his friend, the swell of indignation in his chest the only anchor heavy enough to ground him to his present point. He paused in motion as though he'd just had a thought, inclining his face towards Sherlock with a look of practiced virtue. "Oh, that reminds me, though. I've thought long and hard on it and I think, for now, we'll just stick to the marriage thing," he said, then rolled his attention back down to his laptop screen and carried on as though that were the end of it, enough said, now go and make us a cuppa.

Sherlock did not move. He stood there still, staring, and as much as John would have loved to have seen the look on his face, he felt much more inclined to carry on with the ruse of checking his e-mail and an utter adherence to passivity. He could see Sherlock's thumb toying with his own dark ring, rotating it around his finger in idle sweeps. Conscious of it, conscious of John's, mind stuck in the details. Two married men both wearing rings on their left hand--was it too real now? Did it make sense why little things like being married and wearing rings on the left hand mattered? It wasn't worth asking, he'd simply become indignant, but oh how the thought of those conflicting matters of sentiment made John's chest swell. Best forty quid he'd ever spent.

He didn't intend to wear it for very long--just long enough to make sure Sherlock had at the very least concluded the relevance and validity of John's point-of-view. A few weeks maybe. It was vital that he wear it as often as Sherlock did but it was a small price to pay to teach a childish man a lesson. Lestrade noticed on their soonest case after but was a good enough straight-man to keep his reaction down to a wink. Sherlock maintained a terrible mood throughout. Apparently it was only acceptable when _he_ was the one making all the decisions and playing into ambiguity. Tough. John had absolutely no intention of taking his ring off so long as Sherlock wore his own. Not for those few weeks at any rate. 

Funny how a few weeks can fly by without notice. They say it takes about three to form a new habit and not to fall too far from the average, John found the weight and presence of the ring to be easier accepted than denied after twenty-one days--or thereabouts. There was never a moment when it seemed to him to be the day to leave the ring behind. He just didn't take it off. He liked it. It was his own money he'd be wasting if he took it off so in the end the ring just stayed there even as it garnered no more notice from either Sherlock nor himself. What was far more noticeable were the soliciting letters in the mail addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Holmes" that made John's skin crawl. The magazines for "Mrs. Watson" helped balance that out a little. It was even starting to become almost funny save for the way it further confused Mrs. Hudson who now had her own pair of "married ones" whom insisted on two rooms. Outside Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade, it was a secret only the mass-mailers shared. No one else knew because no one else needed to know. Mycroft was simply a given and needn't be acknowledged in the least.

"Are you Mr. Holmes today or am I?" John asked as he sorted through the mail.

Sherlock didn't even bother looking up from his laptop screen. "Depends on the contents," he said, fingers busy typing other words entirely and at a pace John could admire but never achieve. 

"Bill, bill, donation plea, and a check."

"Yours."

John nodded, slicing through and sorting it all out--the bills for later and the check for deposit. The joint checking account was an absolute dream when it came to being Sherlock Holmes's assistant. No more final notices because Sherlock forgot to pay his bills when caught up in the excitement of cases. No more having to bug the man for his share when a client handed off a hefty sum. It had always gone first into one account but now it was _their_ account. John had the rights to everything in their finances and even though it had never been a large enough complaint in the past to ever be worth noting, the ease he now enjoyed in the their simplified arrangement made anything else a downright hassle.

It had been a good month, really. Same as any other before it. They'd been busy with cases and the rest of the minor details that made up the other hours of their lives. Being married hadn't really been a factor. It was much more like being trusted completely by ones' best friend in every detail and facet of life. And it just _worked_ for them. Completely. John didn't even mind that Sherlock wore a ring as though it were a real marriage. John did too. John's own reasons had been stupid before the habit grew and so it was very easy indeed to forgive Sherlock whatever excuse he still clung to. It wasn't as though the detective was in love with John. And even if he was, after a month of him knowing and many months before when he did not, Sherlock hadn't wanted or asked for anything other than the rights and privileges that served them both.

John's text alert caused the phone to buzz from its spot on the coffee table. He picked it up, reading the message caught on the screen. "Huh... Bill's going to be in London tonight."

Sherlock looked up at the mantle where the skull sat silently before his posture ticked with understanding and he returned once more to his typing. "Mr. Murray hasn't been in the picture for quite some time," he remarked.

"Yeah, well, he's still on tour these days." John smiled slightly as he texted back, thumbs just as unsure as his fingers were when it came to finding the desired letters. "Looks like I've got plans. Any interest in tagging along?"

"None."

Unsurprising. John smiled a little deeper, sending away his quick response with a small surge of anticipation. It'd been ages since he'd gotten to have a proper chat with his old soldier friend. Comrades in arms always had stories to retell and memories to laugh over. It sounded like a brilliant way to spend the evening. He couldn't think of much better. "You want me to pick you anything up while I'm out, then? Food? Just.. stuff?"

Sherlock shook his head. He still hadn't bothered to change out of his pajamas despite the fact that it was well past noon. His blue dressing-gown hung heavy off his shoulders. "I'm expecting a call from Lestrade with some form of interest today. Keep your phone handy. I might need to summon you."

John smirked as he stood, putting the check in his wallet as he walked around to Sherlock's side. "Nothing short of an eight," he instructed, tussling the already messy curls as he settled on his own plans for the day.


	6. Chapter 6

John was going to kill him just as soon as he figured out how to staircase. It seemed easy enough with one foot going up, weight shifting forward, and the other foot marching up to join. Sadly, it almost literally took him saying the steps in his head to manage one, then two, then three with only minor wavering. 'Literally' was always being used wrong but he felt he had a better grasp of the word than most people did after the night he'd had. He had literally been chatted up by no less than three beautiful women. One of them had literally asked if he wanted to come back to her place. And he had literally declined the attention of each and every one of them because of the inescapable fact that he was literally married.

He was going to kill that bastard. It was self defense seeing as the selfish arse had ruined his sex life.

It was impossible though. Slipping the ring off into his pocket had only been the start of the awful feeling in his gut. It felt as though it were burning a hole against his thigh, the whole shape of it impressed upon him despite the fact his trousers were loose fitted. It felt like everyone could tell it was there and knew he was an adulterer. John hated the term 'open marriage' but that was effectively what they had. It was just supposed to be a business partnership; it was the easiest way to be co-everything. Knowing and feeling were never that intimately linked, though. John could tell himself all night how he wasn't cheating, that Sherlock didn't care, and that their marriage by design did not limit his personal freedoms. But it was a lie. It was a lie the minute he paused to take the ring off because that ring, one he'd purchased for himself as a gag, was not a wedding ring.

And yet he still took it off. An honest man would have just left it and gone about his business. If anyone asked, he could have just said the truth: he bought it as a joke but sort of grew attached to it. It was not a wedding ring; it didn't stand for anything. The moment he put it pocket, it changed. It wasn't a joke in his pocket, it was a symbol of his marriage. His figurative wedding ring became his literal wedding ring all because he felt the need to hide it. Every woman who smiled at him made his stomach turn cold and sour as he thought of the lie he represented. He had been transformed into the type of man he despised. It was very, very easy to get pissed after that. And for just that reason, Sherlock Holmes had to die.

Strangulation, probably. Nothing to clean up. Great view. Very visceral. 

John paused on the landing to try and get himself ready for the next batch while his stumbling continued to be masked by the gentle melody above. It was a quiet evening in for the detective, then. John wasn't even quite sure what time it was but somehow still got the distinct impression he was being waited up for. His dutiful husband staying awake to make sure he got home safely. Actually, having thought that through a bit, it was probably much more likely to be a coincidence or simply not very late at all. All John knew was that the night was dark and the rest of the building quiet save for the song coming down through the open door to their den. Though he could see into the room, he couldn't see Sherlock. He would soon enough. And then it was just a matter of not stumbling forward like a zombie or Frankenstein's monster or else Sherlock might become suspicious of his less than admirable ambitions.

The next flight of stairs were easier as the tune seemed to suggest ascension and helped call John's body to climb. He gripped the railings and the banister as he rose and managed not to falter even once as he stood again on flat and steady ground. He didn't really recall it being tilted but with only a few more steps to the door, he managed to walk and steady himself against the white-painted frame. Sherlock was playing beside his chair, looking out through the window in the mirror-like glass as the song came to him from memory.

He was beautiful. It wasn't generally a word John ascribed to men but handsome had a certain connotation of ruggedness and traditional masculinity. Sherlock could be handsome--most days the word would apply. But the softness of his hair with the curls caught in the dual glow of warm yellow street lamps and the blue of the moon, the lines of his body as he stood with his instrument--not angular but curved, the softness of his expression made vulnerable by the song at his bow and the the way he just seemed far too perfect to be real. He was beautiful in the way a sunset was with the precision of the moment captured in the knowledge it was as fleeting as it was recurrent. And god, John really was a hopeless romantic if he could stand in the doorway, drunk off his tits, and forget for a moment why he'd had such a miserable evening because he was too busy staring at the shadow of the other man's lashes on the highlighted crests of his cheeks.

Sherlock looked over at him, his chin slipping from the rest as he brought his instrument down to his side. "You're drunk," he said. It wasn't one of his more brilliant deductions.

"You're beautiful," John replied.

"You're _very_ drunk."

John chuckled and nodded, taking a few more steps in. It was much better now that there weren't stairs in his way. Now there was just way too much room in the way. Their den was really ridiculously vast.

Sherlock shook his head, lips tucked in disapproval as he turned away and placed his violin on its stand. "Well, there's no point in asking how Mr. Murry is, then. You're dehydrated. Get yourself a glass of water if you can manage. You're useless to me now but you can at least try and be less so tomorrow."

"Yeah, well you can try to be less of a..." John didn't have the rest of a retort ready. He wasn't so sure there was a word that meant cock-blocking psychopath but if there was one, he wanted to learn it for just these sorts of occasions. There really was a limit to how often someone could insult another by listing off anatomy. Dick, cock, arse and tit were all great words but eventually he was going to have to branch out.

Sherlock raised his left brow as he waited for some sort of conclusion to the trialing sentence then rolled his eyes when it was clear there was none. "When you do start to throw up, do so in the tub. Going off the amount of fluid required to get to this state and the concentration of which would still be in your system for you to exhibit these signs, the convulsions will likely trigger an abdominal contraction leading to you urinating uncontrollably. Best to leave all disposable fluids in a drain fitted basin." He picked up his ring from the music stand and slid it onto his left hand, the cold metal reflecting blue in the moonlight. "Actually, if you just sleep in the tub you should be fine."

John felt at his own ring around his finger as he stared at Sherlock's. Gold and black, the sun and the moon, day and night. Contrasts--not opposites. Intellect and heart. They hadn't done that on purpose. John hadn't meant to turn his ring into a wedding right either, though. He held his left hand up towards Sherlock, scowling at it as he pushed it forward. "I made a mistake. I can't take it off."

The detective frowned, coming closer with the first sign of concern since his drunken stumble in. "Is it too small for you are is your finger swollen?" he asked, not understanding his meaning as he stopped in front of him and took his hand, sliding the ring off without any trouble. Sherlock looked the gold band over, then gave John's finger a brief inspection as well. He shrugged. "Comes off just fine," he said, sliding it back into its place under the second knuckle of his left hand.

It was stupid. It was so stupid. But he was drunk and Sherlock was beautiful. His eyes were blue like starlight with all the hints of green burned away and standing right there with his cheek bones and soft hair and pale skin and that stupid pronounced cupids bow. John reached his hand around to the back of Sherlock's head, pulling him down into a crushing kiss that sort of hurt but needed to be done. Not for any reasons to be proud of. That was his husband. _His_. And he was beautiful and he belonged to him. Better thinking than that might have reasoned out that that was primitive and wrong but alcohol and sexual frustration were masters at harnessing cavemen mentality. Sherlock was quick to struggle and quicker still to win. He pulled his face away while he pushed John back, the doctor stumbling over his own feet till he'd tripped over the coffee table and ended up folded between it and the sofa. That hurt. He looked up at Sherlock, watching his friend as he straightened out his shirt, pulling his jacket into place though it had not been touched. He looked slightly shaken, certainly caught off guard. John usually rather liked the way his eyes moved when he was surprised and out of his depths. Right now his back hurt, though, and it was difficult to appreciate that helpless look of insecurity that Sherlock rarely let show. 

His frown was deep, his eyes made small as they squinted against internal forces. "You're drunk," he said, though neither of them had their doubts. "I won't mention that... That. If you don't."

"A guy can't kiss his husband?" John asked, not making the best of arguments. He pushed against the coffee table with his thighs, trying to wiggle out more room to get himself off his ass and back to his feet. 

"I'm not talking to you when you're like this." Sherlock shook his head and left the den, calling back over his shoulder as he took the kitchen exit towards his room. "You really want to discuss the physical aspects within a marriage contract in the morning, be my guest. Until then, try not to piss yourself."

John managed to get the coffee table pressed far enough away to sit on the ground as the door to Sherlock's room closed shut with not but the customary _ku-chunk_ as the latch slid into its pocket.

\---

John felt like shit. He smelled terrible. His mouth tasted like vomit. He was pretty sure he could smell urine of the odorous, beer-saturated variety and the fact that it came from the toilet in front of him was only a minor condolence when laid out on the cool bathroom floor for comfort. Jesus Christ, he was an idiot. His head was very soon going to split apart and give birth to the woodpecker currently pecking at the backsides of his eyeballs. He really didn't care if it ended up being a boy or a girl. He just wanted it out so he could open his eyes again and lift his head off the floor without feeling it throbbing with each pulse. He was going die. Right here. This is what death felt like. Or at least it's what he remembered it feeling like back in the much more idiotic days of his youth. Perhaps not _much_ more if he still managed to get a headache so bad it made him vomit to the point that it _gave_ him a headache.

And he had no idea what had happened with Bill. Probably got himself a girl. John needed to check his phone to be sure he hadn't just up and ditched him. But later. Much, much later when he could stomach a position that wasn't prone to the laminate.

Sherlock wasn't exactly sympathetic. They shared a bathroom so John supposed a morning confrontation was unavoidable unless he expected Sherlock to relieve himself into the kitchen sink or some sort of container. There was still something very annoying about another man standing over one's semi-conscious body and dropping trow, though. Sherlock made a dissatisfied grunt at the smell before emptying his own bladder into the common bowl, flushing after a few shakes which made John self conscious about residual splashing. This was insult to injury and he had half a mind to call it on purpose. Sherlock didn't so much as acknowledge he was even there except for the kindness that was not stepping on him as he set himself before the sink. The flushing was already making his head hurt but the running of the tap wasn't helping things either. This was payback. This was karma. That or Sherlock Holmes was an areshole.

Seeing as he saw fit to dawdle in the bathroom and brush his teeth, John was beginning to think it might be the latter. This was hardly the time or place for conversation, though. Or thought. There were lots of places in his memory that were gone and unlikely to come back. But he remembered moonlight kisses and furniture traps. Frankly, he didn't know how he felt about that. He was already feeling rather sick so that wasn't much to be going on. The whole night was a mess of motivations that troubled him and revelations that seemed worse. He didn't want to deal with it right now. Or... anything. Not having a headache would be fantastic and that remained his sole desire and focus of thought. Mind over matter: stop feeling like gum stuck to someone's shoe. It hadn't worked yet but he was determined to continue to try. 

Sherlock set the cap to the mouthwash bottle on the floor beside John as he swished and gargled his own gulp. John didn't want it but sat up and knocked it back anyway, clearing the taste of last night's mistakes from his mouth as he offered back up the empty cup and spat out into the toilet again.

"Morning," the detective said as he stepped over John once more and carried on towards the kitchen where an assortment of clangy appliances and pans were just waiting to sing their songs into the air.

John managed little more than a grunt as he reached out and pushed the hallway door shut.


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the day was more or less a complete wash. John drank water and swallowed pills but couldn't be bothered to do much else. Even after the throbbing stopped and the pain faded away, his head still felt jumbled and untidy with all manner of annoyances thrown about. He'd kissed his best friend, after all--his husband. There wasn't supposed to be a difference between the two but when it came to kissing there certainly was. One wasn't supposed to snog their best friend. And with Sherlock home, entertaining himself with something quiet on the floor below, there wasn't exactly a wealth of time to put together a decent explanation. It would be far too awkward to pretend it hadn't happened so he needed to come up with something to say, preferably something that didn't include the bit where he lost nearly all cognitive abilities the moment he realized the other man was rather gorgeous.

That in itself was headache worthy. John wasn't blind; he knew his friend was generally attractive. He had an odd face that could be too wide and fleshy, trapped between serpentine and horse-like if viewed at just the wrong angle with the wrong shadows and lighting. He could look absolutely alien sometimes. There was just something about his face that could very easily put people off. And then sometimes, at just the right angle with just the right everything, he was absolutely enchanting. Disarmingly so. It was all in the eyes, really. When his eyes were large and glowing, he could take John's breath away. When they were small and piercing, he tipped the scales in the other direction. But he was generally handsome either way, averaging out the extremes into the normal face that expressed both joy and superiority. John didn't have a problem admitting that he'd noticed his best friend was an attractive male specimen. What did seem to be the problem, though, was that his actions made it seem as though he'd gone from knowing he was to actually being attracted to him.

He could reason he was attracted to the more feminine aspects of his looks, perhaps. Large, doe eyes were certainly attributed more to women than men and the curve of Sherlock's ass--yes, he'd noticed--was a very nice shape in contrast to his narrow hips and in following the curve of his lower back. And, of course, there were those lips that couldn't be more pronounced if he lined and painted them. He was fairly certain Sherlock wouldn't be too distressed to know under the right conditions he might be able to pass for a woman if the subject was exceedingly drunk. Might help with a case someday. One never knew. It still didn't feel the the appropriate sort of explanation for the worst kiss to ever be forced upon another man but John was rather out of ideas. 

Maybe he was just taking the whole marriage thing too seriously. Yes, that was it. That made sense. That fit. He'd not been able to get a girl for the exact same reason so the marriage was really the thing at fault. What he needed to do was take the damn ring off and stop playing games with serious business. And he would do. Later. If he took it off now he'd probably just lose it so better to wait and put it away nicely. Somewhere. He'd figure it out. Tomorrow. Probably.

Not that tomorrow was going to be allowed to come peacefully. As he laid in bed on top of his blankets, John could feel as much as hear heavy footsteps running up towards his room. They were the only warning before an even heavier knock rattled his door. John rolled his face into his pillow with an exaggerated groan. No. No no no. Of all the--

"Client," Sherlock announced from the other side, knocking again without hesitation. "Are you still useless?"

"Yes!" he shouted, then thought better of it. "What sort of client?"

"Male, late fifties, affluent and keen to show it off. Something was stolen, I imagine. If it was a personal problem, he wouldn't be so obvious about visiting a private detective. As it is he's hardly being discrete about paying his cabby from a Ferragamo wallet."

"Five then, you recon?" he asked, forcing himself slowly to sit as he waited to see what part of him would most revolt against the idea. His stomach growled instead having been well empty most of the afternoon. It was a good sign.

Sherlock was obviously leaning against the door for the amount of reverb his voice caught as it passed through. "Probably not even a two. He's got money; going to me is a status symbol above seeking police help. Ten quid says I can solve it without leaving the flat."

John didn't much care for those odds. He got to his feet and walked to the door, bare soles slapping against the wood where the rug did not stretch. He was still wearing last night's clothes though his jeans had twisted oddly around his hips with the line of buttons on his shirt following in the curved path to the right. He shifted his clothing around until they were back in proper fashion then opened the door to find the not at all surprising sight of Sherlock's neck and unbuttoned burgundy collar as he stood in the now open entry. John adjusted his line of sight as well, frowning thoughtfully at the offer. "I'm not taking ten quid on a two. I can practically do a two myself," he said, scratching at the back of his head as his scalp tightened in the absence of his pillow's warmth. 

Sherlock was not even attempting to hide the smirk that played brightly across his features. "You can make the tea then while I make a point of calling out his personal problems as punishment for wasting our time."

He was still beautiful. That was troubling. It was also easily forgotten as John shrugged and took the stairs down behind him, Mrs. Hudson bringing up their client from below as they met on the landing. Sherlock gave a large, fake smile and welcomed him into the den while John excused himself to the kitchen. They were terrible people, sometimes; absolutely terrible excuses for professional entrepreneurs. But John happily got the tea while the man told his story and said not a word as Sherlock described the man's impotency and failure to please three separate mistresses. Neither of them bothered to do much else but enjoy the sputtering outrage and immanent dismissal as the gentleman loudly left with his displeasure designed to be overheard and therefore pointless in their limited company. John chuckled and handed over Sherlock's mug, not even having bothered to pretend in making one for their guest as he flopped down into his customary throne. 

"Do I get points for having figured out it was one of his mistresses and not his wife?" John asked, crossing his legs at the knee as he felt himself become more human with a hot tea, a smile, and a laugh to clear the stagnation of his addled fortitude.

Sherlock shrugged. "Seeing as we don't operate on a point scale, feel free to award yourself as many as you like. Only right and wrong matter."

"Ten points to me, then."

"Are there any reductions made in light of excessive libation or are you scored better because of the handicap?"

John scowled into his mug. "Okay, five point penalty for being useless most of the day," he countered, not impressed with the somewhat forced attempt to lead the conversation to the previous night. So much for not mentioning it. Not that it could possibly remain unmentioned, and John knew that. He'd expected as much. The client had really only given Sherlock the excuse to drag him down from his room in the first place. Neither of them gave a damn about some missing diamonds. It was all about getting them in the room together with as little awkwardness as possible. To that effect, John almost had to hand it to him. This felt... easy. Lighthearted. It didn't feel like the set up for an apology in the least and so the frown fell and a wincing smile took its place as John settled again with his legs parted, elbows bracing against once each. "Sorry, by the way. For being useless," he said, leaning forward with his mug clasped between his hands.

Sherlock shrugged, as much accepting the apology as waving it aside as unwarranted. "You don't normally come home having drank that much. Must have been a rough night."

John tapped his fingers against the ceramic. "Yeah. Made a mistake. Ended up, uh... I don't know. Sort of just.... took the marriage too seriously." He shrugged, looking down at the milky contents of his mug, happy he could not see his face reflected back. He would have loved to have lied had there not been a very good reason why he couldn't. This wasn't really about being drunk--it was about what he'd done during. He cleared his throat. "But, uh... I mean, being married isn't the problem; I am. I just need to stop thinking traditionally. But, I mean... that's why.. _that_ happened."

"Because you were thinking traditionally," Sherlock repeated, brow raised.

John hated when he did that. The slight indignation was almost enough to make him feel less awkward. "Yeah. I felt guilty about trying to pull at the bar as a married man. Drunk and guilty and, uh... frustrated. So, uh.. sorry. About... that."

Sherlock looked at him, and for a moment John worried he was going to work the conversation around until John flat out said what exactly what it was he was apologizing for. They both knew. Perhaps it was good manners to spell it out but it was hardly necessary. For all the good the man had done in setting up a relatively easy atmosphere, his curious expressions and blinking stare were not in the least helping move things along in that continuing direction. John hid his lips behind the rim of his mug as he waited out the pause, Sherlock all too easily staring right at him, into him, with the searching stare he usually leveled at a client with all its limitless intensity. There was green in his eyes again--much more green than blue. John wondered if there was a clue to his thoughts in the shifting colors of his eyes. 

Sherlock shrugged as he leaned back into his chair, looking away in disinterest as he melted into the green leather with his mug. "Well, it's interesting to know there exist circumstances under which you'd fancy me," he said, his eyes betraying his smirk.

John jumped with a contained laugh, breathing out through his nose as his lips pulled thin. "I was going to thank you for how well you handled it all but I have a feeling you're just going to hold this over me for the rest of my life."

"Why would you think that, sugarlips?"

"Oh, I don't know, _darling_. Call it a hunch."

Sherlock chuckled, his eyes highlighted in lines as his smooth face scrunched with laughter. John tried not to do the same but it remained an exercise in futility. Okay, so maybe things weren't as tense and awkward as he'd thought they were. Less than twenty-four hours and it was already a joke. He sort of loved that about them. Sometimes flippancy made light of real issues but for things like this, John much preferred laughing it off over serious discussion.

It was in part because of the lightness of the afternoon's tone that John didn't think anything about the fact that Sherlock's left ring finger was naked. There was any number of things he could have been doing before noticing a client was soon to arrive that would have found it left behind. John didn't even bother imagining it left on a table, on a counter, on a music stand, or any other place to rest in waiting. He saw, he noticed, and then it didn't matter. They spent the afternoon and evening looking for real cases in their e-mail and scrolling through blog responses for something of actual interest to do. The ring didn't return. They ordered in for dinner and both gave their best attempts at guessing what the other's fortune cookie would say. The ring still did not make an appearance. Nor did it the next day.

Nor the next.


	8. Chapter 8

It had started out normally, with breasts and moistened thighs spread around his hips. She didn't have a face but he knew instinctively that she was beautiful. Dreams were interesting like that. If he cared or paused to consider, she might have had three hands considering the places he felt touched and teased simultaneously. It really wasn't about her and so the details didn't matter. She was just something he'd made up from scraps picked up from the telly. She was tall but that was fine. Her long legs parted beautifully and she bent effortlessly as he took her on her side, straddling one thigh as the other pressed to his chest. He liked the way each thrust bounced her breasts as they rocked, liked the long stretch of her neck as she cried out at the clever ministrations of his fingers that expertly teased against her naked folds above their intimate joining. He was a god and she was a believer, exalting him with every breath that hitched and rose in timbre. The sweat on her leg made it harder to hold on to, his ring spinning with the lubrication of their efforts. And that was all it took. Just one thought, one notice, one rogue mention of the ring that even his sleeping mind knew would be there, and subtly things began to change--so subtle John hadn't even noticed. It was as if she'd never had breasts to begin with but then he'd been with rather flat chested women so the lack of an exaggerated bounce wasn't a sign in itself. The body was still smooth and lean and glistening in an exhaustive sheen as he drove his hips forward, belly bouncing against her thigh. A thigh. She might have been a blonde or red head before but she was definitely a brunette now with short curls sticking in sweat to skin. And then acclimation be damned. It was Sherlock. It was his voice calling out for sweet mercy, his muscles jumping under his skin in rolling pleasure just shy of ultimate bliss. It was his hands in the sheets and his eyes peeking through dark lashes to watch John with pupils blown wide. It was a cock in John's hand and it wasn't his own. He knew exactly where his was and he was loving it, teasing his lover with short thrusts then leveraging him tightly with his arm around his leg as he took him like a crash test, out then in at full force, striking hard with the sweet smack of skin. And he stroked him--not like he would a woman, more or less exactly as he would himself. Sherlock's voice was a panic of gasps as he fell back with no claims to control. He was John's; John had the power here and Sherlock granted it to him willingly and breathlessly as he prayed for more. 

John did not wake immediately as he came. He luxuriated in it, making sure his partner was pleased by it. Only as the slow seepage called to his conscious mind did it seem something was the matter and needed to be seen to. 

He was instantly awake the moment his eyes opened, and just as immediately aware of the wetness in his boxers that was excused by the warming glow that spread throughout him. It wasn't time to think, though, it was time to act. He threw his covers off and carefully maneuvered to the edge of the bed, not really wanting to have to wash the sheets if at all possible. The rug was a worry as well. He grabbed a pillow and removed its case, holding it between his legs to keep from dripping down his legs onto the floor as he got up and hurried to the much more easily cleaned wooden planks. Dear god, what was he, thirteen? The boxers weren't nearly absorbent enough to save him the trouble of mopping himself up with the pillow case as he dropped the soiled pants to the ground with a grimace of dismay. He was relatively sure he wanked enough to forgo nighttime emissions but there wasn't much use in arguing with semen spotted thighs. The buzz was nice, though. He could feel the creeping threat of guilt on the horizon but for as long as he remained irritated with his anatomy, there was quite a lovely thrill of satisfaction that made his senses prickle with relief. Perhaps it had been a long time in coming even before the bar incident. It had certainly been a very hands-on couple of months. 

Not that the woman had been any of the three women he remembered from that night. Nor that the subject of the fantasy had stayed a woman, let alone a stranger. And ah, yes, _there_ was the guilt ridding along the back of the bliss that was always far too fleeting to make the mess of his pants worth while. But the thought that came up first, the very first pause of concern to enter his mind after his uncontrollable actions in the night, was that he hadn't had Sherlock's permission to do that. Not that he needed it--permission to be used as wank fodder didn't exist and even if it did, it didn't extend towards acts in dreams. And that that should matter more so than that he'd just gotten off imagining himself with another man was only the second wave of uncomfortable consideration as he let the pillowcase join the boxers on the cold floor and walked unhappily towards his dresser for replacement pants.

That was sort of the limiting factor in their relationship, really. Trust to manage their shared livelihood and well-being? Yes, absolutely. Trust to handle their financial security? Yes. He could pull the plug and empty the man's savings if he wanted to. But he couldn't kiss him. He couldn't touch. He could ruin him but he couldn't pleasure him. It was a very strange taboo to exist in a marriage; forbidden fruit on a knowledgeable tree. That was the real appeal, he imagined. There was danger in that mystery more so than lust in its unveiling. Because as strange as it sounded, it wasn't a loveless marriage. That wasn't the part that made it unreal. It was the type of love that perverted the norm but not a lack of it. Love of a friend; love without lust was the general gist of it he imagined. The problem was that his imagination was far less under his control than he appreciated.

So. He'd just had a glimpse of what it might be like to bugger Sherlock Holmes. That was.... something. Not terrible. Obviously did the trick. Times like these he was rather thankful for possessing a medical mind that knew very well that such dreams weren't the realization of subconscious fantasies and he could have very well reached completion fucking a cantaloupe in the end instead. He saw a lot of Sherlock during the day so it only made sense he'd pop up in weird places in his dreams. Not worth having a crisis of sexuality over. He was almost proud of himself for how calmly he was accepting everything. No one had to know and it really didn't matter or mean anything. It was just... interesting. An exploration into realms unknown. Scientific, not sexual. He pulled on a fresh pair of pants and got back into bed and out of the chilled air after a quick check to see what sort of mess he might have made. Nothing worth bothering with, a small damp patch that could most definitely wait. He had enough room to not exactly have to sleep on it anyway. He curled back up under the covers and did his best to return to sleep, eyes closed and pillows switched out so the covered one laid beneath his head. He'd almost managed to drift back off before his eyes blinked open again, his mind too active to wind down and shut off just yet.

It had been the ring, he surmised. The ring was what had triggered this. Not his own which he could still feel against his skin but Sherlock's. It wasn't the first time the damn thing had kept him up at night though at that time it had been with its presence. Sherlock had lost his ring and apparently, somewhat surprising, the detective was okay with that. He didn't spend any real amount of time looking for it and didn't even make mention of the loss. It was John who asked and John who found himself keeping an eye out for the small trinket when he moved about the flat. He was the one who let Mrs. Hudson know it was missing so she too would know to say something if she happened upon it. Sherlock wasn't bothered. Months of wearing the ring and then it was gone and, oh well, such was life. It really didn't seem to weigh on him at all. John supposed that was how Sherlock had always intended it to be. It was just something he bought and put on one day, after all. Things got lost. Things with no sentimental value stayed lost.

It'd been weeks and still nothing. He supposed that meant it was gone.

And of course, John still wore his. He'd planned to take it off but with Sherlock's gone, it seemed... pointless. Most of the time, even if he did take it off, he'd find he'd slipped it back on as a force of habit before leaving the room. Like Sherlock, he imagined it would take the thing walking off on its own to finally leave his hand. He really rather liked it, though. It'd grown on him. If he did lose it, he might actually just go ahead and replace it with something a little less traditional just to keep that familiar weight. And with Christmas around the corner, and not much else up for consideration, John had half a mind to buy a new one for Sherlock.

Generally, he was impossible to buy for. If Sherlock wanted something, he got it. There wasn't a list of things he was saving for or hoping someone else might provide him with. John had got him a pack of special bulbs for his microscope one year with a pad of blank composition sheets for him to compose on as well. Having gifted him in both the subjects of art and science, there was nothing much else to do. Buy him a scarf? A board game? If he wanted either, he'd get them and they would be the ones he wanted. But as for the ring, John knew exactly what to look for and that no one else was going to think to fill the niche. It might be a bit weird but it was personal and would surely be appreciated. He'd certainly wasted more money on less.

He'd head out to the shops in the morning and see about the pricing. Cufflinks and tiepins were never going to be Sherlock's style but the ring had suited him very well. The more he thought about it, the more he rather liked the idea. Christmas shopping would be a piece of piss with Sherlock out of the way. He and Sherlock always went in together on something for Mrs. Hudson so they'd tackle that on an outing together. Bottle of wine for his mother and father, a tin of popcorn and a candle for Harry. Simple stuff. No girlfriend this year to splurge on and no real friends to speak of. Maybe a bottle of wine for Greg while he was at it. Tin of chocolates for Mycroft just to be an arse.

He rolled his face into his pillow, trying to slow the train down and get it to station back into sleep. He was brain-shopping at near four in the morning. He definitely had better things to be doing than this. A ring for Sherlock, maybe looking into a new phone for Mrs. Hudson, and he may as well just buy a whole case of wine to save him the trip later as occasions rose for the need. But he wasn't going to get any of it done now, not at this hour, and certainly not until he'd scrounged up enough laundry in the morning to warrant a quick load before things turned crispy. Just a few more hours of sleep was all he really wanted right now and the rest could surely wait.

And though he slept, he did not dream any further through the night. In all ways he was happily spent.


	9. Chapter 9

The shopping center was absolutely, dreadfully, irritatingly busy with people bustling through the open walkways and lobbies, swinging heavy bags into passerby's knees without any concern and loudly shouting into their mobiles the same conversations ad infinitum on Christmas lists and time till departure and just how busy everything was. John hated shopping and hated shopping even more when stores and shopping centers were seasonally packed. But it was hard to mind stuffed lifts and harried shoppers when he was in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

The man's misery was like a vacuum for all of John's own displeasures. If John was mildly inconvenienced, Sherlock was ready to take hostages. It was funny. It put things in perspective. John liked being the collected, responsible adult now and then, especially when events so often made him the dunce in Sherlock's shadow. Public places made Sherlock into the bumbling child in ways their work never did. Pride was really the only thing that set him apart from the screaming children being dragged along the floor by their grip against a parent's trouser leg. Sherlock wasn't going to get dirty for the sake of a tantrum. Instead he huffed and rolled his eyes and complained about everything from the smells to the heat of too many bodies poured onto the sales floors. It was wonderful fun.

John held on to either end of Sherlock's scarf, now slung over his own neck, as they kept in tight along the first floor walkway. Sherlock's complaints about being too warm had had an easy fix in just stripping him of the extra layer and carrying it for him. Seeing that complaints would be dealt with with appropriate action had made the detective a little quieter on that front, choosing only to bemoan things John could not control or assist with such as the awful waves of over perfumed masses seeping away from makeup counters and other ill-behaved children. The food court would give them a pallet cleansing, though. And a quick bite wouldn't hurt either. They'd already been to the phone kiosk and gotten something far too high tech for Mrs. Hudson for the holiday and had a look around some of the stores boasting huge sales and gigantic lines. There were a couple shirts John liked. Sherlock had looked positively affronted when a sales clerk asked if she could help him with anything, as if he could ever be mistaken as the sort of person who bought bargain button-downs off a table. John knew it was slightly sadistic, but he loved shopping with Sherlock. He was equal parts completely predictable and humorously surprising. He was also very good at pointing out things that would go well together, mindful of John's own style as he gestured to vests and jumpers with small asides as to which materials best camouflaged the likely attempt to smuggle a gun. He made it fun even as he grew exasperated. Still, despite the vast availability of cabs in the area, Sherlock stayed.

As they walked along the balcony, Sherlock pressed in close to John's side. It would have been easier for him to just fall behind or walk ahead when a thick group of people pressed towards them in the opposite direction, but he was too stubborn to move and too Sherlock to make his presence less inconvenient for strangers. John didn't mind. So he ended up having to time his steps right to make sure their legs didn't tangle mid-step; it didn't matter. Sherlock was there. He'd rather that than a clear path through the masses any day.

"Can't we be done now?" Sherlock asked, dragging his heels slightly as he walked with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat, the bag for Mrs. Hudson's gift slung over his wrist.

John shrugged, seeing the lights of the food court not that far ahead. They could probably leave an find something nicer to dine on but they rarely went to the shopping center together and it was sort of part of the experience in the end. "You said you wanted to look into that gadget store," John reminded him, though he'd need a map to remind him exactly where it was they'd seen the place. He hadn't had a need to visit the center since last Christmas. He rather expected to follow that trend through the new year.

"I can look at things on the internet and get it delivered for far less hassle than dealing with this nonsense."

"Yeah, and Mrs. Hudson can make calls without Bluetooth, WiFi, and a 326 ppi display," John said, lowering his hairline to mimic raised brows though Sherlock wasn't looking at him well enough to see. "Nothing wrong with stepping outside your comfort zone and doing things a different way."

Sherlock bumped him with his elbow in a way that was far too strategic to be accidental. "You were paying attention," he said with a slightly surprised if not proud lilt.

John colored slightly, chin down. "PPI could mean Phone Power... Internet for all I know. I was listening, I wasn't paying attention. I just know it's going to be a nightmare explaining how to use the damn thing to her--your job, by the way."

The detective shrugged, seeming slightly less annoyed for the time being all the same. John smirked with a roll of his eyes and dragged him through a queue for chips and fountain drinks. Sherlock chose them a table with some minor details of isolation in as much as it wasn't surrounded on all sides by chairs, tables and other patrons. They piled their chips on a center parchment to give them both elbow room on their side of the small table. It didn't merit concern over what functionality looked like to passerbys. John drizzled over the malt vinegar and Sherlock picked equally from John's side of the mountain and from his own. So what if it looked like a date or that they were together. What anyone else thought really didn't matter.

John washed down a tangy bite with the sweet rush of soda, almost regretting the choice for the way the flavors spiked against his tongue. "Just let me know if you need me to conveniently get separated from you while we're out," John said around his straw, pinching the open tube with his teeth.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled in utter distaste. "Why would I want to be left alone with this... _this_?" he asked, gesturing towards the crowds and likely everything that didn't have a physical form as well such as the smells and overall warmth.

"Buying my present on the internet then, are you?"

Sherlock continued to look somewhat confused. John let his chip fall back to the parchment, trying not to scowl. "You saying you weren't planning on getting me anything?"

"John, you have access to my bank account and credit cards. If you want something, get it." He went back to munching on a chip, no longer looking at John but instead at their shared food in as much as it represented their shared assets. 

John hadn't thought of that and it showed in the quiet pause that set his body stone-solid. He supposed it made sense on a practical level. He'd never actually considered himself free to take advantage of the joint status of their finances outside the usual necessities like food and utilities which they both made use of anyway. He joked about taking the money and running but it was nothing more than a joke. He was legally allowed to help himself in far lass drastic measures but he kept tabs on how much should be his or else moved it to his personal account to be safe. It hadn't occurred to him that Sherlock intended for him to treat his money as their money. As his. It was generous, really. Much more than he had need to be. Still, the only thing he could think to say was "Huh," as his muscles loosened and let his head incline, tongue licking his salty lips.

Sherlock scowled. "What?"

"No, just... never thought of it like that." John shrugged his shoulders, pulling away one of the soaked chips on Sherlock's side of the mound. "You're right. You've given me plenty. Who needs presents anyway," he said, effecting a slightly over-dramatic sigh as he bit off one end of his potato wedge. "I mean, it's only Christmas." 

The master manipulator knew damn well what he was doing. It didn't seem to matter, though. Sherlock's scowl fell into a frown as he all but glared at him then at the table.

John couldn't help but smile. "You're going to get me something now, aren't you."

"Probably," the detective said, which for all intents and purposes may as well have been a 'yes'. He was sulking now. 

John propped his chin up on his palm, elbow next to his drink. "Probably appreciate a hint as to what I might want."

"It would help."

"You're a consulting detective," he said, giving him a playful wink. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

The more fun John had, the more annoyed Sherlock looked. It was a fantastic game, really. Sherlock bitterly slurped on his soda while maintaining irritated eye contact, his eyes a sharp silver in the daylight pouring in from the windows above. It was all for show and they both knew it. Sherlock was more embarrassed at the thought of buying John a gift than he was annoyed that he was being made to. He was being told to be thoughtful and that generally fell outside his comfort zone when it might mean demonstrating he was actually much more astute and emotional than he liked to let on. Tough tits; it was Christmas. If John had had to visit no less than four jewelers to get just the right ring, Sherlock could spend a few minutes online figuring something out for him. It was only fair and it was only once a year. John smiled triumphantly and picked at another chip, managing to eat it just as smugly.

"What did you get me?" Sherlock asked at length, perhaps trying to get a clue as to what was expected of him. Or perhaps just to make sure he too was getting something. Of course he was.

"You'll just have to see," John instructed, knowing perfectly well that neither waiting nor not knowing were things Sherlock dealt with well. "And no looking at bank or card statements until January. That's cheating."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, deflating against his own raised palm. "Well I imagine I should get you something of comparable value. Knowing the monetary investment would give me a range of expectation."

John nodded, trying not to feel self conscious as he rolled his memory back to the shop and the total on the paper that had initially made his stomach flop. "Between three and five hundred pounds, then," he said, keeping his face neutral as he stuffed it with more food. It was a perfectly normal total to spend on ones' best friend. Especially when there was no girlfriend to spend that sort of money on.

Not that he was fooling Sherlock any. The detective perked up, his mind rolling through his mind palace itinerary of items and costs he might have cataloged. "On a single item?" he clarified, playing with his straw. "Did you get me a gun?"

John nearly choked. "You could talk a little quieter if you're going to say things like that. And no, I didn't get you a gun. A; I'd have to maintenance it because you can't be bothered and B; I consider being in possession of the weapon job security." He looked around them just to give himself some assurance no one had overheard and was set to inform security that two men were discussing armaments. He supposed a gun was much more fitting in with Sherlock's needs within his profession but John hadn't a clue where one would go to get such a thing in the first place. Sherlock was the one who seemed to be able to come into a supply of ammunition every time they needed some. Like he'd said before, if Sherlock wanted it, he could help himself. It was much more in his realm of acquisition than John's.

A gun seemed to be Sherlock's only and best guess, though, as he sat and thought, formulating suspicions over a few more chips before sitting back and waiting for John to either finish the rest or toss them away. His straw made squeaky noises against the plastic lid and echoed loudly with his final slurps. All this from a man in an impeccable suit and a coat that cost more than most of the clerks earned in a week.

John wiped his hands off on a napkin as he decided himself to have finished as well. "So gadget shop and.... home?"

"Unless there were any stores you had a particular interest in going into," he replied, not in the least bit subtle in his request for some kind of hint as to what he should buy. The problem was that John honestly didn't know what he wanted. He was far more interested to see what Sherlock thought and in what direction he would go: practical or sentimental. He was pretty sure he knew but even then he was curious as to what needs the other man would hone in on. He just hoped he wouldn't get a load of socks and a drawer organizer. But he wouldn't tell him that. He wanted to see. No matter what it was, it was bound to make him smile.

Standing and getting in a short stretch, John threw away the last of the chips and the empty fountain drink as well, scanning for some sign of a map to direct them back to the store they wanted. He was rather sure they'd heard the Christmas tune that was playing through the speakers at least three times already and the candle shops and kiosks smelled heavily of cinnamon. It was monotonous and crowded and John's feet were nearly aching even after a short reprieve. But it might have still been one of the best afternoons he'd spent all week. He grabbed the ends of Sherlock's scarf again as he walked, elbows tucked, through the throngs. And even though he didn't look, he knew exactly where Sherlock stood as he felt his body press close to his as they made room for others and weaved their path, side by side, down the balcony halls.


	10. Chapter 10

"Take this back," Sherlock instructed, shoving forward a small, velvety box that sat perfectly in the palm of his hand.

John recognized it immediately and frowned in thought as he stood at the stove frying bacon in a pan. He'd managed to keep the jewelry box hidden for weeks but it was Christmas eve now, the morning of, and Sherlock had obviously been snooping around the flat if he'd come to possess the black gift box with its red ribbon and bow. Spoil sport. Even if he hadn't been expressly searching for his present, he knew better than to look in disused places around the flat this time of year. John shook his head and turned back to the sliced pork belly while Sherlock stood haunting his side. "Where did you--"

"Not an important or necessary line of inquiry." He kept his hand thrust out, waiting for the box to be removed from his palm in acceptance. "Return this to the store you bought it from," he ordered. At least, it seemed he wanted it to be just a simple order. We was too tense for that, though. Too static. He held the jewelry box as though he were afraid to touch it, held it out far as though it might bite. It'd given him a bit of a shock, it seemed, and not at all in a good way.

John cast him a quick glance then back at his task. The ribbon was intact. Sherlock hadn't the patience to retie it. "You haven't even opened it," he said, paying more mind to the spittle of animal fat than he did Sherlock's insistent command. 

"I know what it is and I know what it isn't. Take it and get your money back."

It was far too early for this. And not at all the way John had planned it. This morning was about being lazy and fat with nothing to do but complain about Mrs. Hudson's joyful singing and get things prepared for the Christmas party that night. Even the later bit was basically him getting out of Mrs. Hudson's way so she could make Sherlock hang things for her in the absence of a decent stool and two well fairing hips. Instead, Sherlock wanted to be dramatic at breakfast time. He was setting the bar rather high for the rest of the day if this was where he chose to start off in the morning.

Frowning, John cast him another glance over his shoulder. He was still in his dressing gown, pajamas visible as it hung untied, and his hair was a fluffy mess having not even managed the time to comb or wet it into order before discovering the small, black box. The look in his eyes was worth taking pity on. He hadn't just shocked him, he'd hurt him. Sadly, that was exactly what he'd been trying not to do. "It's not what you think it is."

"It's a ring," Sherlock insisted. "It's obviously a ring."

"Nope." John let the plosive pop with finality as he carefully flipped the frying strips as though all were normal and right. "Not a ring. Despite what you think, I'm not that stupid. You took your ring off for a reason and I respect that. I'm not going to insult you with a ring to replace it." It wasn't worth it to admit he'd thought of doing just that. He'd thought better of it in the end and that was all that mattered. 

Sherlock's fingers curled back along the jewelry box as though no longer afraid to touch it. He bent his arm in towards his stomach, brows falling heavy over his insinuating stare. "What makes you think I didn't lose it?" he asked, not exactly denying it but certainly curious as to where he'd failed and where John himself had been more observant than credit had been given.

John leveled him with a sideways scowl that begged not to question too deeply his intelligence as he turned and kept his back to his husband. Things were almost always easier said without direct eye contact. Sherlock would certainly be able to read his ease and sincerity without facial cues meanwhile the bacon would certainly burn without his direct attention. "Because that would make it a coincidence. And I know what you say about coincidences," he said, prepping the kitchen roll as the slices in the middle of the pan seemed to quickly be coming ready. "I complained about taking the marriage too seriously and suddenly your ring gets misplaced? Doubt it--especially the part where _you_ can't find something. I think you were having the same problem I was and you realized the same night I did. Except while I acted like it being too real was a problem, you actually wanted it to be real. You'd been enjoying it. And you made the same mistake I did which is why I know you care. You took your ring off. And if it hadn't meant anything to you, it'd still be there." He transferred the bacon over piece by piece, being as obvious as possible that none of this mattered in a way that caused judgement or change. "You're in love with me," he said, as though remarking that the sky was blue, "and I've behaved like a jackass. I'm sorry. That's why it's not a ring. That would be beyond insulting and insensitive and... yeah, I'm not that guy."

Sherlock was quiet. John continued to cook. He didn't need to look back and see if Sherlock was struggling with a means to deny it or working out flaws in his junior deduction skills. It was important to just carry on like it was something that they'd both known the other knew all along. Sherlock was in love with John. Maybe he always had been. John was over feeling stupid for not having noticed before. It'd only taken four separate jewelry stores and several dozen rings for him to realize they'd both invested meaning into their supposedly meaningless non-wedding bands. They'd both let the symbolism get to them and complicate their simplified understanding.

John turned the stove off as he removed the last few strips of bacon, giving a warning rubbing of his palms before turning around and leaning his hand against the chair beside him. He smiled politely at the still frozen form standing just a few feet away. "May as well open it now that you've found it."

Sherlock hesitated, staring at John with a sad sort of confusion before looking down at his hand and slowly pulling off the red ribbon and bow. His every movement was precise and drawn out, as though waiting for some sort of repercussion to evolve from this new revelation that John was married to a man who loved him. He seemed to anticipate some sort of cruel joke or hanging punchline. So it was of little surprise that when the box opened and the band of polished titanium shone into view, his expression was more akin to betrayal than non-comprehension. "You said it wasn't--"

"It's not. It's a _wedding_ ring," John clarified, shrugging one shoulder with nonchalance. "I love you too."

Sherlock did not move. Even his expression seemed fixed in an almost unhappy panic as he stood stock-still and blinking. John smiled gently and slowly took the box from his palm and removed the ring from its crescent cradle. It was lightweight and durable, perfect for their lifestyle, but unlike the one the detective had purposefully hidden away, it was inlayed with a band of smokey diamonds that were subtle at a distance but under the lights above their kitchen table glittered like a hidden prize. John turned Sherlock's left hand over and slid the wedding band into place, happy to see the finger adorned once more with the mark of their marriage in full view. John gave the back of his palm a brief caress, squeezing his hand before granting it release. It did not fall without his guide, it stayed exactly where John had left it, though Sherlock's eyes had fallen from John's face to the band he'd placed on his hand.

John's smile deepened, his neck feeling warmer as Sherlock continued to remain mute and static despite what he'd expected to be happy news. He rubbed at the warmth, trying to catch it before is spread to his ears. "I've still got breakfast to make. Try not to track down any other presents while I've got my back turned, yeah?" 

Sherlock said nothing, not even granting a nod of comprehension as he stood like Daphne, transformed on the spot.

John rolled his eyes, not able to disguise his smile as he played into his eery silence. "Though, ya know, you could make it even and give _me_ something to unwrap afterwards. You in that dressing gown for starters."

That worked. Sherlock's chin jerked up, his eyes finding John's without searching, no longer clouded in dismay but widened in the same regard. "You really mean this," he said, searching for a reason to disbelieve it. 

John nodded, laughter light on his breath. "Yeah. I really do."

Still perplexed, Sherlock frowned and stepped closer, head tilting to the side to ease the the bend of his throat. "What changed?" he asked, his voice almost dripping in accusation as though all this were a misguided attempt to fix what was not yet broken.

"Nothing," John replied, still smiling, still sure. "Which is probably why it took me so long."

Sherlock's frown broke with a soft chuckle, his lips turning first before his eyes shed their clouds and brightened like the stones of his ring. He seemed to settle into his skin better, loosening at the joints until he was whole and present, no longer restricted by fear or reservations. It had been his stupid idea to have them married in the first place in which case no proposal could ever do. But John was happy he could deliver an admission of love that still worked to define them as they were and always had been. He was proud to pronounce them husbands for life. And he wanted very much to kiss his groom.

As Sherlock started to leave the kitchen, backing away to leave him to the cooking as he'd asked, John smirked and called out, "So was that a yes to sex later?"

The detective all but tripped into the glass partitions, stumbling towards John's chair as he tried to collect himself and seem cool. "Yes. What? No. yes. Yes. Yes, that's.... fine. Good," he stammered, making a point not to go to his own chair, in view of the kitchen, and to attempt a disappearing act on the other side of the wall.

"Not making you nervous am I?"

"No."

"Good," John stated, getting down a can of beans with a chuckle disguised under his breath. "I love you."

"Yes. Good."

"Sherlock. Try again."

"Yes. I do. That. As well," his husband's voice echoed back with his own improvised admission.

John had a feeling he was going to enjoy married life. In fact, he already did.


End file.
